King of Hearts
by SkyKissed
Summary: He's always been skilled at taking hearts. She just teaches him to do it a bit more literally.


**A/N: **Just a little attempt to fix the (as of now) bit of weirdness from last episode.

* * *

**King Of Hearts**

* * *

He has always been skilled at taking hearts. It's an inborn talent and one he's almost woefully proud of. Some of it he's willing to credit to his good looks; maybe part of it is owed to his career. In a kingdom full of farmers and mud and general tedium it's only logical that a pirate's life would hold some allure. But it's more than that. It's a perfectly structured equation.

He is dark and not particularly trustworthy but it's just a_ hint _of those things. It's a _hint _of something unpleasant, just enough to make him genuine and just enough to give the illusion that they can _change_ him. That they can fix him; that he can be _redeemed_.

Silly and overly idealistic beliefs that he's exploited a thousand times over. Given time, he can claim the heart of most any lady. Sometimes it's a game, a way to keep himself busy, see how far along he can string them before they finally catch on. More often it's a means to an end; it's considerably less messy (and incriminating) to simply be _given _any needed information as opposed to killing for it. It's a rare talent, bordering on preternatural. It gives him power.

But it pales in the face of _this _woman's magic.

Regina's fingers curl within his chest, the intrusion still jarring no matter how many times it's happened. It's more shock than pain as her fingers break skin, sinking beneath flesh and muscle. There's a pinch and then a crushing pressure as she clutches the frail organ. He grunts, reaching up to grasp her wrist with his good hand. She arches a brow, begins to pull away, only for him to hold her steady. It's then that he'll hear her chuckle, the sound wicked and entirely unkind. The Queen coos at him with a mocking intimacy perfectly suited to their relationship.

The familiar sensation of her magic licking over his skin is a welcome one. It's a strange thing to consider but magic has a different feel according to it's master. The imp's magic had been dark, sickly, not unlike brushing against something oily. Neverland had felt like pure water, cool and refreshing. Regina is liquid fire, searing everything she touches. He closes his eyes, maps the passing of her energy through his chest. It's random at first but he's learned there's a pattern to it, mixing with his own strength.

"Focus."

It doesn't matter that she's purring it, voice low and like honey (sickly sweet and entirely false); it's a command. Hook grits his teeth waiting for the inevitable tug. Her fingers tighten and then there is no hesitation. In one swift, smooth, move she's removed her hand. The pressure subsides.

He gives himself a moment to catch his breath before looking at her. The Queen has resumed her seat, brushed her hand against her heavy skirt as if cleaning away something loathsome. There's no real aftereffect from the spell but it gets her point across. He is something _beneath _her.

"Did you get a feel for it that time, Captain?"

He chuckles, rubbing a hand over his shoulder to chase away any lingering soreness. There is no mistaking the taunting note in her voice, mocking him for his inability to understand this simple trick. It's a matter of confidence and understanding magic.

And he doesn't understand.

Decades in Neverland has left him changed, tinged by magic, but it doesn't make him any more proficient. He offers her a light shrug, reaching for the wine left untouched from their (likewise untouched) dinner, "We cannot all boast your natural affinity for the dark arts, Majesty." The momentary flash of pain (memory) will never cease to amuse him. That it's followed immediately with a haughty sneer only makes it sweeter. He holds up his glass in salute, "But we are making progress."

"While your pitiful attempts at magic are, as always, the highlights of my day, I have to wonder if you've kept your end of the bargain."

He pours another glass, offering this one to her. She won't accept it, never will, "Of course, dear lady. I am nothing if not a man of my word." A lie and she scoffs, "The sea's are clear. I've found no trace of your darling mother. In this world or the next."

The answer doesn't appear to satisfy her (and shouldn't) but she nods, "Then our business is concluded." For the time being.

Hook runs a hand over his chest, still feeling the telltale tendrils of her energy twining with his own as she departs, leaving his quarters tinged with smoke and magic.

* * *

He doesn't claim to have any allegiances (a pirate can't afford them) but working with her is successful enough that he doesn't mind the world at large assuming he's allied with the bitch Queen. Their meetings go the same most every time.

He will acquire whatever it is she needs (occasionally information, more frequently some odd little trinket) and then in she will flounce, all darkness and leather and an image so carefully calculated that it's almost laughable. The leather is impractical, the corset is impractical, everything about her screams _impractical _but it clings to her like a second skin, a shadow and therein lies the explanation. She is reaching for something well beyond her grasp.

The Queen is beautiful but far from charming. She is attractive but she has created herself as a creature of fear rather than attraction. She can rip a man's heart from his chest but she cannot _claim _it. In this regard, she is the lesser of the pair.

So he smiles rather than cowers when she enters, wearing her feigned bravado and ridiculous clothes. He offers her a glass of wine knowing she won't accept it, holds her bauble out to her. It will disappear in magic and smoke, a wicked smile will turn her features and then the lessons will begin again.

"Confidence is key..." as if he's learning to dance or something equally mundane.

And then it's her hand in his chest (and he tenses instinctively); her words ordering him to relax even as he reaches up to stop her (futile; every time it's futile). "Stop thrashing, Hook; if you intend to pass yourself off as a man, act like one."

"Such honeyed words, Majesty..."

She snickers and the fingers dig in more tightly (in warning). When he tenses in an attempt to fight her off, he's rewarded with the same. There is real pain now and he feels her begin to tug, the weight in his chest becoming almost crushing.

It takes all of his control to force himself to relax, every muscle going slack. It's only then that he feels the weight subside (though her grip has not changed). There's something loose and strange to the touch now and while the magic is still there it is more...distant.

She removes her hand and smirks, gives him a patronizing stroke on the cheek, "The key is leaning into the magic. Pull away and it will destroy you."

He takes it as a rule of thumb for life rather than just her lessons.

* * *

"What is the purpose of these little parlor tricks?"

Regina arches a brow at his comment, smirking despite herself. The queen shrugs, running a finger absently around the rim of her glass (he's making progress and it takes all his charm to get her to...indulge). The maroon colored liquid is perfectly suited to the color of her gloves, slowly rocking from one side of the glass to the other. It's impossible to say if the motion is from the sea or her own tempo, "There are practical reasons."

"And here I was thinking it was all about showmanship."

That smirk again, "You of all people should know the merits of style over substance, Captain."

The gibe rolls over him without effect, met with a matching grin (widening as he fills her glass yet again). She undoubtedly knows the game he's playing at but it doesn't stop her. She is far too proud to yield to a common pirate. With a toss of her head she motions him over, already reaching for the collar of his shirt. At any other time he'd have a comment for her. Now, he is almost painfully silent.

If he wants to kill the crocodile he must have a way to defend himself. The Queen is willing to teach him; _he _is not too proud to yield. The woman pulls off her glove.

He's grown accustomed to her touch now. The sensation of real, physical, heat is only amplified by bare skin and he smirks at her. It earns him a dig of her nails into his shoulder, warning him not to push her good graces. The woman presses her hand over his heart, just hard enough for the familiar pressure to manifest but not enough to break skin, "Hearts are funny things, very weak. If I were to hold yours, you would follow any of my commands. No matter how repulsive you found them."

"How petty."

She shrugs again, "I prefer _convenient_. You could use it to kill but...there are more effective ways."

"Far less flashy, I'm willing to bet."

Regina ignores him, speaking more to herself, "And in rare cases, it can be a blessing." That does catch his attention. He feels her nails graze over his skin again, heat and magic, toeing the line. The familiar pressure is back as if she's just about to take his heart, "Once removed the heart becomes stronger. As long as it's kept somewhere safe, it's possible for you to function as normal. Without any of the..." she taps his chest with one perfectly manicured nail, "Pesky side effects."

"And no one would be able to..." he mimes gripping a heart.

"No. There wouldn't be anything them for them to get hold of."

It's the most useful piece of information she's given him. In return, he pours her another glass of wine. The next bauble she requests is delivered without charge.

* * *

There are fewer lessons but she still has him running errands and their routine carries on the same as it ever has. She will occasionally stay for a glass of wine but that is the only change. They speak of magic more frequently than not. While it is an almost impossibly small thing, there is a note of respect in her voice now. He's _learned _and she can respect that.

Knowledge is a strange thing, however. He knows how to take a heart and he understands the principles behind it but it does not make him any _stronger_. It only adds a certainty to his original fears: he is capable of some magic but he will never be the imp's equal. His little parlor tricks will not protect him from _that. _He can defend himself but he cannot hope to _win_. Not as long as his heart's still beating.

"You're thinking."

"A dangerous pastime, I am aware."

He can't say that she laughs. There's a point not too far back in their history where she might have (it'd have been closer to a cackle, sneering) but now she is more restrained. Regina taps a finger absently against the table, nodding. They are, neither of them, fond of introspection. It too easily reminds them of what they've lost. She pours herself another glass of wine.

"I have a favor to ask of you, Majesty."

She raises a brow but doesn't comment when he sets his plan out in front of her. It's a good one, if a bit macabre. The sneer is present through the whole of the exchange, a telling counterpoint to his own smile (she's never responded well to it). He offers her treasures and power. Regina always reacts favorably to power.

When she thrusts her hand into his chest, he barely reacts. There's no pain, just pressure, the feel of liquid heat curling around the frail organ. She smiles (a note of respect coloring the otherwise demeaning expression). She can respect his dedication. She can understand his revenge.

It's the reason, he supposes, that she is willing to go along with his little experiment.

Regina offers him his heart with a delicacy he didn't imagine her capable of. The Queen frowns ever so slightly, trailing her hand over his shoulder. There's a scar there now, not physical, but magical. His own energies are distorted, melded with hers, around the gaping hole.

If she's expecting him to show some hint of regret, she is woefully mistaken. He just smiles that practiced smile, pours them each another glass of wine.

Upholding his revenge justifies whatever unsavory means necessary. He watches as she sets his heart in one of those velvet lined boxes, pushing it towards him. It's a trade no different from any other.

It earns her first (and only) genuine grin. He takes a step to ensure his ultimate victory, to safeguard his revenge. She can respect that. She can empathize (because they're not so different).

_This _lesson is given to him free of charge (and there's a time that might have bothered him).

* * *

The next few months are spent practicing. The Queen occupies herself with her own thoughts of revenge and he is left to train by himself. He makes progress. The lessons are perhaps less pleasant without the beautiful woman but he makes do. He closes his eyes and calls their sessions back to mind, mapping the flow of his own magic to more closely mimic hers. It doesn't feel quite the same but he's able to create the proper effect. He plunges his hand into the unfortunate beast's chest (and the poor thing fights him rather than relaxes, makes his grip more sure).

The first time he holds a heart in his hand he feels no small amount of disgust (colored by a bit of wonder, the thing pulsing and alive in his grip). The imp had used the very method against him. He'd used it to kill Milah. While he has done no shortage of evil things over the course of his career this feels...wrong.

Then he takes a second heart. And a third.

Revenge justifies the means and those feelings of reservation fade with time and repetition.

* * *

Their world is left at a standstill for twenty eight years. Every one of those days is spent preparing, searching for a way to that other world. It's luck or cruel irony that has him away when Regina's curse hits. He's finally prepared to enact his revenge and then, like fate, it's torn away from him. He has twenty eight years to stew, to contemplate the time he might have saved and how different it might have been. He spends twenty eight years searching.

Like her daughter, Cora is the solution.

She is different from Regina in every way that counts (and more dangerous for it). She is the same darkness with the same sneer but her confidence is _real_. It's unflinching and almost bitingly cruel. Even at her most wicked, he'd been certain the Queen had some standards. There had been lines (however thin) which she would not cross.

Her mother has no such compulsions.

He spends twenty eight years searching for her, running tasks to return her to her previous strength. Hook realizes that he is helping in the creation of a monster but...the ends justify the means. He smiles and flirts and charms until she has what she wants and they are standing right on the precipice of their return. There are complications (blonde, sharp tongued, world weary _complications_) but inevitably they will prevail. After twenty-eight years spent with this sorceress he has no reservations left.

He wants out of this cage. He wants to skin that crocodile and see if the Queen is still wearing her pretty little smirk. He will return, regardless of the cost, and regardless of who facilitates this first.

So he smiles when Cora takes the little princess captive. She is a pretty, frail, thing, the sort he'd preyed upon in another life. The girl (not a woman) stares up at him with her huge eyes, silently hoping. She knows better but she still allows herself to _hope_. He speaks to her more slowly, softly, and he can see her reservations melting away.

He is dark and far from a hero but she is so alone and so _desperate_. And she longs to trust him, to believe in him and the pretty lies he's feeding her. The little princess practically gives him her heart. First in principle...

And then physically. She doesn't even react properly when his fingers curl within chest, too puzzled and a little sad. She's too tired to be properly afraid, simply stares at him with her huge eyes. If he were more like the man Milah fell in love with, he'd feel guilt over his decision. That man would have found another way. That man had been industrious and had been capable of misleading the Dark One.

If he'd been the man Regina had painstakingly instructed, he'd realize this is a line he does not wish to cross. It offers him little, betrays the trust he has cultivated with Emma and her friends. He'd find another way and come out stronger for it.

After twenty-eight years, he is Cora's man. There is a flicker of hesitation and then it's gone, buried beneath a cool certainty. He no longer has the time for subtlety or allegiances and this puts him in good standing with both sides. He will reach that other world. He will remove this maddening debt.

He feels a moment of guilt when the little princess stares up at him, so betrayed.

It's gone before he's removed his hand. The novelty of taking a heart has long since worn off. Now there is only the grim satisfaction in knowing he's prolonged the game. He is one step closer to getting (he almost chokes on the word) home.

He gives Aurora a playful little pat on the cheek, "Run along, love. I'm sure your friends are worried." And she smiles (because he makes her).

His own smile is more genuine when he turns over the still beating heart. There is a note of surprise in Cora's tone masked beneath layers of indifference. Warning her that there's more to him than what she knows (that it's her daughters doing). Cora releases him and is back to purring her little endearments, the note of threat never really disappearing.

But she is pleased with him; she will take him to that other world.

And the little princess makes certain to espouse his virtues; they will take him to that other world.

There's a time his actions might have disgusted him. The girl's heart, beating in Cora's hand, is a reminder of this. It's a violation of the code of honor he'd once held in high regard.

_This _man simply smiles. This man is nothing if not practical and any lingering traces of guilt are shed like a snake's old skin. He offers Cora a little wink, a practiced smile he's used to melt the heart of hundred's on women.

Hook has taken his share of hearts. It's been a part of him for as long as he cares to remember. This is only the most recent iteration, a bit more literal with his means. It's one heart out of hundreds; no reason to let himself be troubled. It takes one heart to ensure his safe passage.

"Enjoy your gift, dear lady." He certainly will.


End file.
